Page 22 of A Long Con

Before we mounted our rides, I texted Twinkletoes.

Blast this to every Zealot. Has anyone seen Pothole in the last hour?

Beyond that we had no real game plan. Pothole would avoid his own apartment downtown and rabbit until he met up with his buyer. Kanapapiki, how much bank was he going to sell that so-called original for, one million? Ira was prepared to pay five before he caught sight of Berkeley’s—excuse me, Sterling’s—face. Knowing my well-hung buddy was an art forger, he definitely would’ve lowered his offer, but not down to one mil! Pothole was a traitor in every sense of the word.

And speaking of traitors. Berkeley was about to let me sell a fake without telling me it wasn’t Marcel Duchamp but he who was the artist! I ripped it up down the windy road to Rough and Ready, unsure who to bury first. But if Ira still wanted the fake, I would set aside that particular orifice-ripping for later. Now, we had a fucking rat to catch.

We beelined it to The Happy Hour. If no one responded to Twinkletoes’ text, I could grill anyone there. I recognized the rides of Turk, Ormond, Harte, and Dipstick in the side lot where we parked.

I whipped my phone from its cradle as Berkeley said, “Royal, please fucking forgive me. I didn’t know if I could trust you to know I was the Artsy Dodger and not turn me in to the FBI.”

Actually, it was pretty fucking awesome that he was wanted by the FBI. “I understand where you’re coming from, brah,” I lied. He could’ve taken me into his confidence, especially after two or three mind-blowing cocksuckings. But no. He tried to get me to sell a forged painting.

Twinkletoes texted, Yes. Turk said he stopped by the Happy Hour. Talk to him.

I slapped his chest with the back of my hand, my eyes on The Happy Hour’s side door. “We’ll discuss that later, brah. Turk has intel for us.”

When I went barging in the side door, Turk almost body-slammed me. We both had the same idea.

“What’d he do?” Turk barked.

“Stole a valuable painting Berkeley had shipped here from back east. No, there’s no way he mistook it for garbage. He went blazing out with the tube.”

“We’re done with him,” Turk declared.

“He’s out bad,” agreed Harte, standing behind Turk.

I didn’t have time for club business. “What was he saying? He give you any idea of where he went?”

Turk said, “Sort of. He ran in here and tried to grab a bottle of twenty-five-year-old scotch. Harte saw him and grabbed it back. He said he wanted it to impress this horse breeder up off Kiowa Boulevard.”

Harte nodded fiercely. “Expensive houses.”

A couple of my more high-end buyers lived up there. I was already furiously google-mapping a few breeders in that area. “Rajah dat. Thanks for the help, brahs.”

“Yeah,” said Berkeley. “Once again, I trust the wrong guy.”

I shot him a look of flames, hoping my voice dripped with contempt. “Sounds kinda familiar.” I had been a good actor, back in my day. “Artsy Dodger.”

But there was no time for further stabs to the gut. I told Berkeley to follow me, stuck my phone into the mount on my handlebars, and roared off toward Kiowa.

The GPS named a few horse or equestrian places around there. We rode up three driveways and didn’t see Pothole’s bike. At some point, though, I lost Berkeley. That fucking Faux Gogh had split off from me instead of following slavishly—the sign of him being a Dom, I supposed, needing to assert his authority.

Where the fuck?This wasn’t the time for BDSM head games. As I doubled back, I thought of the tingling pleasure I’d enjoyed when Berkeley had handcuffed me. No one had ever done that to me before. There was a bizarre dichotomy between being a lunkheaded muscleman, and being completely at the mercy of this black Irish Apollo. He’d pinned my head to the wall as he skewered my throat with his pulsating dick. His nasty, domineering words had my own prick throbbing in my jeans.

. “You know I’m hung like a rhino, and you’re the only one who can take all of me into your mouth, to suck me off like a kanapapiki.” Like a sonofabitch. I’d put the collar on, in front of Ira Hogshead no less, because I liked it. I liked playing submissive, being “forced” to suck a dick, as though I had no choice, as though I were being assaulted. You could say I was being intimidated into submission. And I liked it. I think I was a power bottom.

However, Berkeley didn’t act like the men in the videos I’d seen. They called their subs “boy,” and snarled and yelled, and paddled their asses. Well, that was probably in our future. I wouldn’t mind.

If I could get over him lying to me. But you know what? I lied to people all the time. I told them that flakka was a good drug, that they would have fun, that it was harmless. I lied when I sent Pothole to break into people’s homes. I lied to buyers about the qualities, origin, or names of various items I sold them. So you know what? Berkeley was just trying to get by in the world.

But I’d never stop calling him the Artsy Dodger.

Okay, there he was, parked by a sign at the end of a court. Entrenadores de Caballos. Rodriguez Jimenez, Prop.

“Come on!” yelled Berkeley. “I think I see his bike—whoa!”

Indeed, Pothole was on the move, riding back down the driveway toward us. We had no choice but to park our rides like barricades, which still wasn’t wide enough to cover the road, so we stretched out between them like Terminators.I guess we were taking a gamble he wouldn’t hit us or our bikes.